


when atlas crumbles

by cacowhistle



Series: ad astra per aspera [4]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, if i cant get antarctic anarchists in canon ill fucking do it myself, its sbi time fuck this, we couldve had it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:55:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: One can only hold the weight of the world for so long.Tommy makes some breakthroughs. He isn't sure what to do about it.can be read as a standalone fic.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: ad astra per aspera [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060727
Comments: 23
Kudos: 477





	when atlas crumbles

It starts with a fight, as most Tommy-related situations tend to.

“You’re living under _my_ roof, the least you could do for me is put in a _little_ bit of effort,” Techno says one day, snarky and deadpan and irritated as Tommy slacks off while the rest of them fell trees.

It’s a valid point, to be fair. But Tommy is tired, and already not having a great day and, ever the instigator, he rolls his eyes and mocks the man he’s begun to call his brother, muttering something rude under his breath.

It seems both of them are feeling confrontational today, because Techno’s head snaps up.

“Come again?” He calls, taunting, and Tommy smiles sweetly.

“Nothing,” he says in a tone that says otherwise.

Phil and Wilbur are quiet, glancing at each other from where they stand. Technoblade sticks his axe into the snow, marching up to Tommy with a scowl.

“Tommy, if you’re going to be a _shit,_ ” and Tommy knows he’s crossed a line, now, “go back to the house. I don’t want to hear it today.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Tommy snaps back.

“I think I can, actually, considering I’m the one letting you stay.”

“And I should just follow you mindlessly because it’s _your_ house?”

“You should show some respect and be _helpful!”_

Technoblade raises his voice and oh, that was the wrong decision. Tommy goes deathly still.

“Respect,” Tommy says, slowly, frozen where he stands. The word tastes like acid on his tongue, he turns it around a few times in his mouth, considers it for a few moments in frigid, furious silence. “Respect, you want me to _respect_ you? Why should I respect anybody? Nobody _ever_ fucking respects me.”

His voice rises, louder and louder like the furious beat of a drum as he steps forward, glaring up at Technoblade. “Why should I care or even put in the effort if everyone’s just going to _throw me away_ once they’re done with me? I haven’t forgotten that fucking favor,” he all but shouts.

Tommy throws his axe down into the snow. “Every time I put my heart into something, it just fucking backfires! Look at L’manburg! Tubbo! _You guys!_ I spend all my time giving a shit about other people, but nobody gave a shit about _me_ until I tried to--”

Lava. Burning. Smoke in his lungs, the coat, the chimney.

Tommy can’t get the words out. He jerks his thumb across his throat, knowing it will get the same message across.

“So if nobody actually gives a damn,” he snaps, beginning to storm back towards the house, “then I’m not going to either.”

The rest of them stand in stunned silence, watching him disappear through the snow.

* * *

“Hey, mate,” Phil says, sticking his head through the door. “You alright?”

Tommy’s glare says enough. He curls onto his side on his mattress, facing the basement wall. For once, he is silent, but it’s the furious sort--and all it does is make Phil even more worried, if that were possible. Tommy is not the type to stew in silence--there’s far more than anger beneath the surface, then, if he doesn’t want to say a word about it.

Phil sighs, softly, crossing the room to sit on the bed beside him. Tommy tenses, but does not shift away like Phil was afraid he would.

“Is touching okay?” He murmurs, inquiring. The room is silent and still, and he thinks Tommy isn’t going to acknowledge him until the boy nods, slightly.

Tension begins to bleed from the both of them as Phil runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair, all gentle and soft and kind in a way that few get to see. Tommy can’t help the warm glow of pride in his chest at the fact that he is one of three or four that get to see this side of Phil--the sweetest parts of him, the caretaker side of this man. He leans into the touch like a cat would, sighing with uneasy contentedness.

They are silent for a while, the two of them leaned against each other. Phil is content to sit in this silence for now--if Tommy does not want to talk yet, he isn’t going to force it. He can’t help the anxious twist of his stomach, however, looking down at this kid he practically considers a son.

He is surprised for the second time today when Tommy starts talking.

“M’sorry,” he says, quiet and subdued, “for snapping at you’n Techno. And Wilbur.”

Phil breathes out a gentle sigh of relief. “It’s okay. We aren’t upset.” He manages a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth.”

Tommy blinks up at him, confused. “... for what?”

He hums as he cards his fingers through ruffled blonde hair. “For not being there sooner. For making you feel that way. I should’ve noticed. We all should have.”

“... it’s fine,” Tommy mumbles, sinking against Phil’s shoulder. “I’m used to it.”

Phil’s heart breaks a little bit, then. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Tommy makes a small, noncommittal noise, and Phil sits up a bit, tilting Tommy’s head up so he meets his gaze. “You shouldn’t. You’re still a kid, Tommy. None of this,” he waves a hand vaguely through the air, “is fair to you. I should have done something sooner--Wilbur, Dream, Schlatt, all of them, they were wrong for using you in the way they did. You know that, right? You, and Tubbo, and Ranboo--you’re just kids. You don’t have to be a hero.”

Phil exhales shakily, pulling Tommy in for a hug, burying his nose in his hair. “You’re just a kid.”

It’s like something shatters, then, the pieces falling and slotting into place. The realization hits him so hard he feels numb, and Tommy only curls further into Phil’s embrace, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Tommy is shaking, and Phil’s hold only tightens as he murmurs sweet nothings, tries to calm his racing heart.

For the first time, Tommy processes _._ Tommy breaks, and Phil helps him pick up the pieces.

* * *

They don’t speak to each other that night, but that doesn’t stop them from seeking each other out.

Tommy sinks into the blankets beside Technoblade on the bed, burying his face in his shoulder. Techno wraps an arm around wordlessly, the sort of apology that comes in the quietest moments. They sit there in silence, Tommy trying to quell the shake in his fingers, Techno trying to think of something to say.

He comes up empty. Tommy understands him regardless.

He sleeps in Techno’s room, that night.

* * *

“Boo,” Wilbur says, appearing in front of Tommy with blood pouring from his chest and mouth.

Tommy, rightfully disgusted and horrified, falls out of his chair with a shriek. It earns a delighted, mean-spirited cackle from Wilbur, floating mid-air. Blood drips to the floor, staining the floorboards. Another thing to add to the list of things Techno will not be pleased with about this scenario, Tommy thinks as he picks himself up off the floor, scowling up at the ghostly form of his brother.

“That’s disgusting,” he says, flatly, “stop doing that.”

“No,” Wilbur says, sounding all smug and rude in a way that makes Tommy’s stomach churn.

“Why’ve you been so weird, lately?” Tommy blurts out, unable to lock the question up. He regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth.

Wilbur stares at him blankly for a few long moments, before smiling--it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the blood staining his teeth is something Tommy will be having nightmares about tonight.

“I’m not being weird,” he says, and Tommy snorts.

“You are. You’re acting more like _Alivebur,_ ” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Wilbur flinches.

“I’m not him,” he insists, softly, color draining from his fingertips. There is something different in his expression, though, something that doesn’t leave as the echo of his voice takes hold.

“Wil,” Tommy says, before petering off. He doesn’t know what to say.

Wilbur shakes his head. “I’m _not_ him.”

“Well you’re wearing his face,” Tommy snaps, irritation turning to anger, rising in his chest and rushing out like a breath of fire. “And using his voice, and his identity, and Wilbur was a _shit_ person. Whether you like it or not, you’re some part of him. So make up your fucking mind: you’re either him, or you’re not.”

“I’m _not,_ ” he repeats, voice harsher, now.

“Then stop fucking acting like him!” Tommy shouts, chest heaving with angry, uneven breaths.

“Don’t raise your fucking voice at me.” It’s like a switch is flipped, and Wilbur’s feet touch the ground. His expression turns dark, bitter and enraged as he takes a threatening step forward. Tommy flinches back.

“It’s the only way to make you listen,” Tommy mutters defensively, and Wilbur just glares.

“You can’t go holding this shit over my head,” Wilbur seethes, and the fury is so unsettling after so long. Tommy can’t help the way he backs away, remembering a confrontation just like this in a dimly lit ravine, and as the fireplace goes out, so do the lanterns on the walls.

Left in the low light coming through shuttered windows, Tommy’s heart hammers louder and louder in his chest. The window panes rattle, and the room goes ice cold as Wilbur glares, unmoving. His eyes are dark, so dark Tommy thinks they might be black, void of anything and everything he loves about Wilbur. A chill runs up his spine, and he almost feels drained as the room goes even colder.

“Wilbur is _dead,_ ” the ghost says, stepping forward. Tommy steps back, only for his back to hit the wall. “He died a long time ago. You need to get over it. You have more important things to worry about, Tommy, you were _exiled,_ your best friend _hates_ you, everyone _left_ you, you--”

“Stop,” Tommy gasps, cutting him off. “Stop it.”

“You want Wilbur back?” The ghost says, mocking. He grabs Tommy’s wrists. His hands are ice cold. They travel up his arms, then shift up to cup his cheeks. Tommy can’t help the scared little whimper he lets out. “I can bring Wilbur back.”

“Let go of me,” Tommy says, quiet and careful.

There’s more blood, staining Wilbur’s sweater. His eyes are dead and dark, and he’s bleeding all over the floor and it’s getting onto Tommy’s shirt and arms and hands with how close Wilbur is leaning, and he reeks of death and gunpowder and something sweet that makes Tommy’s chest ache with the nostalgia of it.

“I mean it.” Tommy does not meet his empty gaze.

Wilbur releases his face. Ruffles his hair harshly, tugs it in a way that _hurts._ Tommy stumbles sideways, away from him, shaking so hard he thinks he might collapse. Tommy shoves open the door, almost falls out into the snow. The entire confrontation took something out of him, he thinks it might have been Wilbur.

“Phil,” he gasps as he rounds the corner of the house, “Techno, guys--”

Dizzy, he almost pitches forward into the snow. There are hands on his arms and shoulders and his skin crawls at the sensation. Warmth presses against his side before he’s being picked up. He can hear Phil and Techno murmuring, voices indistinct.

“S’Wilbur,” he mumbles, and the other two go still. “He’s being weird.”

“... weird how?” Phil asks, gently, and Tommy can’t help the tears that well up.

“He’s being scary,” Tommy says, burying his face in Techno’s chest.

They’re talking. Tommy’s too tired to figure out what they’re saying, and he figures it doesn’t matter--there’s nothing he can do, anyway.

His eyes drift shut. He dreams of blood and burning.

This time, it’s Wilbur, instead of him.

* * *

Tommy wakes up with a hand in his hair, and can’t help the way he tenses on instinct.

It’s gentle, carding through it as though taking extra care to not wake him. It pauses only when Tommy shifts, slightly, but he keeps his eyes closed and does his best to keep his breathing even. If he’s silent and still, maybe it won’t hurt.

The touch still burns. Tommy’s chest feels tight, throat closed up as he forces himself to take deep breaths, tries to keep his face smoothed over with false serenity, the kind that comes with sleep.

“Tommy?” There’s a familiar whisper, a warm, clawed hand cupping his cheek. “You awake?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything to suggest he is, in fact, awake. Why are they still touching him? His skin burns, crawls with the sensation, and he shudders involuntarily at the memory of icy hands crawling up his arms, cupping his cheeks, tousling his hair. The hand sinks into his hair again and he can’t help the way he jerks away from it, eyes snapping open. He remembers the painful tug of Dream’s fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, almost falling off the bed from how violently he tugs himself away from the touch. “Dream, please don’t--”

Tommy’s chest heaves with uneven breaths as he tries to take stock of his surroundings. This isn’t Logsteadshire. The stone walls of Techno’s basement are around him, Dream isn’t here, _Dream isn’t here,_ he buries his face in hands, unable to stop his trembling. Someone’s speaking, who’s speaking?

“Tommy,” Techno’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts, “ _breathe._ ”

He’s trying, he really is, and he tries to say as much. The words just can’t get out. A hand settles on his shoulder and he flinches, a full-body thing, and Techno swears, softly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he stutters, pulling his hand back. Tommy shivers, trying to stifle his sobs with one hand.

Techno sits in front of him cross legged, holding out his hands. “Tommy, hey. Look at me. Can you describe your surroundings?”

Tommy takes in another shuddering breath, slowly lowering his hands to take Techno’s. The contact doesn’t burn as much, this time. He tries to even out his breathing. Slowly, he casts his gaze around the room, and recounts everything as best he can, voice shaking. The stone floor, the bed, his blankets on the floor, the hatch leading upstairs. The chests against the wall. His jukebox. The discs in a pile next to it.

Techno nods, looking slightly less nervous. “Good. You okay?”

He’s still shaking, staring down at his hands, interlocked with Techno’s. He manages a nod, though, wordlessly running a thumb across the back of Techno’s scarred hands. The brother figure in question gently tugs his hands away and opens his arms for a hug. Tommy hesitates, but gives in, diving into it. Techno brings his arms around protectively, rubbing Tommy’s back and burying his face in his hair.

“You’re okay,” Techno says, gentle. “I promise. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles. Techno shushes him, carefully bringing a hand up to card it through his hair--making it clear what he's doing. It doesn’t burn, this time.

“It’s not your fault,” Techno says, sternly. He pulls back, hands carefully shifting to Tommy’s shoulders as he looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice that boundary before.”

Tommy blinks up at Techno, confused. “... huh?”

Techno raises his eyebrows. “The whole touching without asking thing. I didn’t realize it was…” he trails off, brow furrowing slightly. “... I didn’t realize you were so uncomfortable with it. So. I’m sorry.”

There’s a few seconds of silence as Tommy absorbs that, turns it over in his brain. He’s uncomfortable with being touched. He hasn’t really placed that, before. Suddenly, a lot of things begin to make a lot of sense. “Oh,” he says. _“Oh.”_

“Did--am I wrong?” Techno asks, looking genuinely confused. It draws a laugh out of Tommy.

“No, you’re right. I just. Didn’t. Realize you were right.” He pats Techno’s shoulder. “Thanks for the eye-opener, big man.”

Techno snorts as he swats his hand away. “Yeah. Anything that’s specifically off-limits?”

Tommy hesitates, looking down at his hands. He thinks of Wilbur, fingers ice cold and wrapping around his wrists. “... don’t touch my arms without asking.” He furrows his brow--it feels weird to be setting a boundary like this. “Or, or my shoulders or face. Just--just make it clear what you’re doing.” He pauses. “... please.”

Techno nods without hesitation. “Got it.”

There’s a few beats of silence, before Techno speaks again, voice ten times softer. “... can I ask why?”

It’s an innocent enough question. By all means, Tommy should be able to figure it out. He _can_ figure it out, and maybe that’s the problem. Guilt keeps his mouth shut, and his gaze slides to the left. He… he knows exactly why, but it feels wrong to say it. “Dream,” he says, because it’s partially true.

Techno is quiet, Tommy can feel the fury simmering within him. Tommy hesitates for a few moments longer.

“Wilbur, too,” he finally says, voice so small he’s afraid Techno doesn’t hear it.

Techno’s gaze darkens. “... oh.”

Tommy nods, mutely. Techno opens his arms for another hug, and Tommy takes it without hesitation, this time. He doesn’t notice when he starts crying. Techno strokes his hair, holds him close--holds him protectively. It doesn’t burn, not in the way Wilbur’s hugs did at the end.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it,” he murmurs. Tommy shakes his head.

“You’re here now,” he says, quietly. “That’s all I could ask for.”

* * *

“Tommy,” Ranboo says, splayed out in the snow. “I have a question.”

Tommy dumps a snowball directly on top of Ranboo’s face. “Fuck you. What’s your question.”

Ranboo’s tail wraps around Tommy’s ankle and _tugs,_ making him yelp as he hits the snow. Tommy kicks more snow at Ranboo, who cackles, rolling away, sitting up on his knees.

“It’s kind of serious,” he admits once their laughter has died down.

“I can be serious,” Tommy says, laying on his stomach and leaning on his hand.

Ranboo flips his tail in his lap, anxiously toying with the feathery end. His horns are starting to itch from the cold. He doesn’t meet Tommy’s gaze--but then again, he rarely meets _anyone’s_ gaze, as is his nature.

“Would you want to talk to Tubbo again?”

Tommy goes still.

“What?”

Ranboo manages a weak little smile. “I just… he misses you, y’know, and I know you miss him.”

“I don’t miss him,” Tommy says, biting.

Ranboo just raises an eyebrow. Tommy brings a hand up to the compass still dangling around his neck.

“... maybe a bit,” he mutters, averting his gaze. “I… I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just--” Ranboo huffs. “I dunno. I noticed something, the other day. And--I dunno. How many friends do you have that _don’t_ just want to use you for some end goal?”

Tommy falls silent, frowning at Ranboo from where he sits in the snow.

“... most… of… them?” Tommy furrows his brow, sitting up properly to stare down at his lap. “I… think.”

“I just--Dream’s not your friend, and Schlatt ended up using you, Wilbur did, Tubbo did even if he didn’t _want_ to, Quackity, even Techno did for a little bit, it’s just…” Ranboo shuffles, crossing his legs. “It’s kinda messed up. You could… you could use another person in your corner. We just… we just gotta convince him. But--but my point still stands. It’s messed up, Tommy.”

Tommy stares into the snow for so long that Ranboo’s worried he’s lost him, for a minute. But then:

“That’s fucked up.” Tommy looks up at Ranboo, eyes wide. “I--how did I never notice that before?”

Ranboo shifts closer, Tommy leaning against his shoulder. Ranboo continues fiddling with the end of his tail, staring down into his lap.

“I just want to make sure you know,” he says softly, “that I’m here with no strings attached. Okay?”

Tommy’s breath hitches. Ranboo leans his head back against Tommy’s, and the tension begins to bleed from their shoulders.

“Okay,” he whispers.

They stay out until the sun goes down, and watch the sunset together.

* * *

_Can we talk?_

Tommy never likes these conversations. It means he’s either in trouble, about to be pitied, or some horrible mixture of both. No matter what it is, he knows he isn’t going to enjoy it. It’s always worse when it’s Phil, too, because Phil always has good reason for whatever he wants to talk about, and he always makes good points, and Tommy can’t be upset with Phil--he usually ends up crying, when Phil wants to talk about something serious.

But he can’t say no to Phil, either.

So he sits on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with his hands, anxiously avoiding Phil’s gaze. He’s pretty certain he hasn’t done anything wrong, but… he figures he could be wrong.

Fuck, _did_ he do something wrong?

“I can hear you overthinking this from here,” Phil says, amused. There’s a note of concern beneath the surface, though. Tommy huffs, drawing his knees to his chest.

“... sorry,” he says. Phil snorts.

“You didn’t do anything,” he reassures him. “I just had… some questions. About Dream.”

Phil pauses.

He lowers his gaze to the floor. “... and Wilbur.”

Tommy’s breath hitches, at that.

Guilt squirms in his gut and claws its way up his throat, and Tommy can’t stop himself. “He wasn’t _that_ bad,” he reasons, staring at a point past Phil’s shoulder. “Wilbur was… he was okay. He--he took care of me. He just--he just went a little wrong, we couldn’t--we couldn’t save him. It wasn’t his fault.”

The worst part is how he has to force himself to believe it.

Phil looks up at Tommy again, and Tommy does not meet his eyes. “Did he hurt you, Tommy?”

Throat dry, Tommy tries to breathe. Breathes in, then out, curls trembling fingers around the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah,” he admits almost breathlessly, the bravado and belief rushing out of him all in one breath. “He did.”

Phil opens his arms for a hug. Tommy tucks himself against Phil’s side, instead. “It wasn’t his fault,” Tommy repeats, miserably, and they both know he’s lying.

“I’m sorry,” Phil murmurs, rubbing his back, and now Tommy can’t stop the tears.

“He wasn’t always bad,” Tommy whispers, still staring off at nothing. “He was fine for so long, Phil, he wasn’t--he wasn’t a bad person.”

He doesn’t see how Phil’s expression wavers, then. How the tears well up in his eyes as he recalls a time when he had both boys under the protection of his wings. The few weeks they’d all spent together in the Empire, where they had breathed easy and clung to each other as the world tore them back to their separate corners, where Wilbur had promised to visit, where his letters stopped coming and Tommy’s frightened ones began, and--

Well, you know how the story goes.

Phil laments the loss of a son, and whispers: “I have to bring him back.”

Tommy closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to argue.

“Okay,” he says.

Phil’s heart hurts at the hopelessness of it.

* * *

He may have been bad, at the end, but Tommy can’t help the way he crawls to Wilbur’s side, that night.

He tucks himself into the spot on the couch beside his brother, buries his face in his ice-cold shoulder. Wilbur hums absently, wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, holds him close. It almost makes Tommy want to cry again, the gentle familiarity mixed with the fear. If they brought Wilbur back, who would he be?

It’s the not knowing that gets him.

“You okay, Tommy?” Wilbur murmurs, and it’s so soft and sweet and gentle that Tommy _does_ start crying, this time. He’s surprised he still has tears left.

“Fine,” he says, voice hoarse.

Wilbur doesn’t call him on his shit. Just picks up his guitar and starts strumming something familiar, something that makes Tommy’s chest ache even more for hearing it. He hums the L’manburg anthem as Wilbur sings to him, softly, the way he did when Fundy was small. It almost makes him feel better by the time he’s done.

He doesn’t know how to feel about Wilbur anymore. He _hurt_ him, he blew up the country, he… he lost it, a little, and Tommy is afraid he won’t ever get the Wilbur that came before back. It frightens him, the idea that he’s lost Wilbur forever, despite the fact that he’s sitting right here with a gentle smile and a song on the tips of his fingers. Because it isn’t Wilbur, not really, not fully--it’s a washed out afterimage, an echo of the person left behind in the button room to rot.

“Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, despite the two of them being the only ones in the room. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What is it?” He whispers back, feeling like they’re in the Empire again, huddled under the blankets in Wilbur’s room, hiding a harmless secret from Phil or Techno, the two of them conspiring.

Wilbur lets out a shaky breath, though Tommy’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to breathe.

“I… remember some of the bad stuff,” he says, softly, and Tommy’s blood runs cold.

He shifts away, eyes wide, and Wilbur winces as Tommy flinches back like he’s been burned.

“What?”

Wilbur looks away, guilty. _Afraid,_ part of Tommy whispers.

“I know what I did,” he whispers, eyes wide and unseeing, and it’s almost worse than Wilbur’s last moments, laughing and losing it on the ruins of his nation. “And I’ve been too scared to say anything. I don’t feel like myself, Tommy,” he lets out a scared little laugh, “something’s happening to me, the longer I stay like this.”

“I can’t forgive you,” Tommy says, quietly after a few long moments. Wilbur nods.

“I’m sorry.” He watches Tommy with what looks like remorse, eyes pained. Tommy misses him in this moment, so strongly it hurts.

“I can give you another chance, though.”

They are silent, then, staring at each other in the dimly lit cottage, lanterns flickering on the walls. Wilbur smiles, softly--uncertainly, even--and opens his arms for a hug. Tommy hesitates.

He takes it.

They cry, then, long and hard and _together,_ Wilbur silent in his tears as Tommy clings to him. It’s a grief-stricken sort of cry, as they mourn their failures and promise each other to be better. There has been too much hurting in their story, and they are finally numb with the realization of it all. But they are together, and Tommy misses him, despite the hurting and the fear. There is something that can be repaired here. He _wants_ to repair it, more than anything. There is a path to recovery ahead of them, and neither of them plan to walk it alone.

Tommy does not plan on going to the ritual. It’s only going to be out back, by the altar, but he does not want to witness it.

He will face him on his own terms. Wilbur allows this. It isn’t forgiveness, by any means, from either of them.

But it’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @cacowhistle for updates! i'm also on twitter, twitch, and youtube under the same names, although i don't post to twitter (for now). i'm on to much bigger and better things this year, as far as content goes :>
> 
> thanks for reading!


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